


1164 Morning Glory Circle

by st_aurafina



Category: X-Men: First Class (Comics)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-10
Updated: 2011-01-10
Packaged: 2017-10-14 15:27:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/150740
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/st_aurafina/pseuds/st_aurafina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the request <i>The X-Men have temporarily disbanded, for whatever reason (this happens periodically in canon, or make up your own!). Scott & Jean decide to live together and do something-that's-not-superheroing. What do they do, and how does it work out?</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1164 Morning Glory Circle

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2008 X-Men: First Class ficathon

_From the journal of Professor Charles Xavier, 1971:_

 _I believe I've come up with the perfect way to prove Erik wrong. I'm certain that, in less time than he would expect, I will convince him that humans and mutants can co-exist and flourish. I think he will be both surprised and challenged by my proposal._

At first, Scott was reluctant to help with packing up the Professor's papers, as if refusing would somehow stop the Professor from leaving for Muir Island and putting the X-Men on hiatus. He knew it was petty, but as each person prepared to leave, Scott's stomach clenched a little tighter. Hank had already taken a study fellowship at Cambridge, and Warren had been seen waxing a pair of snow skis, bound for some exotic Southern Hemisphere skiing destination. Scott's resolve not to assist held until he caught Bobby outside the Professor's study, snickering as he relabelled a carton 'Bikinis and Thongs'. Scott sighed, took the box and the marker and carried both back into the study, and rearranged the contents so that the heavy books were at the bottom, not crushing the loose papers. Jean, perched on the end of the desk to better direct the packing, peered into the box curiously, then, with lightning-fast fingers, snatched something from the between the pages of a book.

It was a photograph, corners bent and creased. "Professor, is this you? When was this taken?" Jean tilted to blow a layer of dust from the glossy surface.

Bobby leaned down from the stepladder to peer at the picture just in time to catch a faceful of dust. He sneezed loudly three times, and a light sprinkle of powdery snow floated down around him.

Warren slapped him on the back as though he was choking, and the snow and sneezing stopped. "Oh, Bobby. I can't wait to get you on the slopes. We're going to be so popular." Bobby sniffled and nodded in agreement, while Scott and Jean looked more closely at the picture.

The photograph was in the dusty yellowed palette of 70s Kodachrome, and it showed two men standing side-by-side on the front step of a pretty, gabled house with an well-kept garden. Professor Xavier, easily identifiable by his lack of hair, stood beside another man whose face was oddly familiar, though his grey wool suit was not. Scott looked more closely. The man's hair was white and too long, even for the seventies.

Jean gasped. "That's Magneto!"

"Whoa," said Bobby, with Kleenex stuffed in both nostrils. "You were roomies with Magneto?"

The Professor took the photograph from Jean's hands and placed it carefully on the desk in front of him. "I expect you all know that we were friends before I formed the X-Men?"

Everyone nodded, and drew a little closer to the Professor's chair as his expression became distant. "It was a long time ago, before we realized that our ideologies were further apart than our friendship could stand. Magneto challenged my theory that human and mutants were compatible and could happily share the same world. So I selected an average house, in an average suburban street, and proposed that we live there, the two of us, to better understand the interactions that might prove an impediment to peaceful co-existence."

Scott raised an eyebrow. "So, the people in this street _knew_ that you were mutants, then?"

The Professor frowned. "Well, not exactly. We had to maintain our anonymity. I posed as an insurance salesman. I believe I was quite convincing."

Bobby pulled the tissues from his nose thoughtfully. "But, if they didn't know that you were mutants, why would they be freaked out? You'd be just two regular guys splitting the rent. Kind of like The Odd Couple."

"Ah, but you're not taking the fundamental principle of Magneto's theory into account, Robert. He believe that humans and mutants are two different races entirely, antagonistic by their very nature. If his theory were true, then the local people would not need to know of our mutant abilities. Our mere presence would be enough to cause tension."

"How long did this experiment last?" After all this time leading the X-Men, Scott had developed an ear for when he wasn't hearing the whole story.

Professor Xavier's shoulders drooped a little. "Seven days."

Jean's eyes grew round. "The humans drove you out after a only week?"

"No. The friction came from within, I'm afraid. We were not the most compatible of house-mates."

Bobby nodded knowledgably. "Just like The Odd Couple. I bet Magneto was the messy one."

Scott looked around at the debris in the study, then met Jean's eyes, feeling for the telepathic link she left open just for him. *I bet he wasn't.*

The Professor arched an eyebrow at Jean's giggle. "I have a marvellous idea, Scott. Since the X-Men are on hiatus, why don't you and Jean take up where Magneto and I failed?" He opened a drawer and rummaged inside. "I retained ownership of the house, I'm sure I have the keys here somewhere." He gave Scott a stern look. "That is, if I can find them in this terrible mess." With a triumphant flourish, he withdrew his hand, holding a large ring of keys, which jangled ominously.

"Oh, that's okay, Professor." Scott suddenly forgot his anxiety about the hiatus. "I've got plenty to do here, and Jean was going to visit her parents…"

Jean snatched the keys out of the Professor's hands. "I can visit my parents any time. This is so much more important." She took Scott's hand and looked earnestly up into his visor. "We'd be doing it for the good of society."

***

1164 Morning Glory Circle was like a museum dedicated to groovy seventies décor. The Professor had kept things in very good condition, thought Scott, as he tentatively pushed the front door and it swung open on silent, well-oiled hinges. Inside, he could see mint-green carpet and waffle-patterned wallpaper.

"Coming through!" Bobby thundered down the pathway and into the house, barely visible behind a towering stack of boxes. They hadn't needed to bring much with them - the house was completely furnished - but there were many things in Jean's wardrobe she couldn't live without, and almost all of the boxes in the rental van were hers. To be perfectly honest, Scott had scrabbled to fill even one box; he could have easily fitted all of his clothes neatly folded into his duffle bag, but Jean had looked so stunned by the idea that one's worldly goods could fit into one small bag that he'd thrown a few CDs and a baseball glove into a cardboard box, and taped the lid down.

Jean picked her way along the paved pathway, neatly and improbably balancing a stack of boxes on her outstretched hands. Scott hurried to her side to relieve her of some of the boxes.

"Here, let me take some of them. You shouldn't carry so many at once." The tell-tale pink glow around the cartons was almost invisible in the bright sunlight, but he hissed under his breath. "We're not supposed to be using our powers, remember? I bet Magneto held off for more than ten minutes when they moved in. This is suburbia, the whole street is probably watching us."

"Do you think?" Jean asked, sweetly. "Let's give them something to talk about, then." She leaned across to kiss him on the lips, taking advantage of his hands being occupied.

Scott blushed. Was that a curtain twitching in the house next door? Jean's hand slid across his, and he abandoned concern. With his hands on the stack of boxes they both held, and his mouth pressed against Jean's, he led them under the portico roof where they were sheltered from view, and kissed her in return.

"Guys, guys!" Bobby's voice came from on high. Scott and Jean peered up from under the portico roof. Bobby was leaning out of an upstairs window, hollering and waving his arms hysterically. "Guys, this is so awesome! There's a waterbed!"

Upstairs, the décor was similar – cool, crisp greens and busy wallpapers.

"There are only two bedrooms,” Warren said, coming out of the guest room with a puzzled expression on his face, "And they share a bathroom."

In the master bedroom, Bobby lay blissfully outstretched on the bed which undulated and rippled beneath him. "This. Is. Amazing."

"Don't freeze it, Bobby, you'll split the bag." Scott didn't know why, but that bed filled him with alarm.

"Dude!" Bobby wallowed around in the bed like a walrus. "How the hell do you move in one of these?"

"No wonder the Professor is in a wheelchair," Jean said, rolling her eyes. Scott looked at her in confusion, and she added, "Waterbeds are really bad for your back."

"Okay, Iceman." Warren hauled Bobby off the bed by an ankle, letting his body hit the floor with a thud. "We're on a deadline, remember? We have a flight to catch." He pulled his car keys from his pocket, and handed them to Scott with mock reverence. "I'll return your ugly-ass rental, but you treat my car nice, okay?"

"New Zealand babes, here we come!" Bobby thundered down the stairs, and slammed the front door behind him. Scott, Jean and Warren watched from the upstairs window as he pelted along the garden path and cleared the low picket fence in one glorious leap.

"Don't worry," said Warren. "I'll give him his Ritalin before we get on the plane." He gave Jean a kiss and slapped Scott on the shoulder, then ambled down the stairs with his hands in his pockets.

***

 _From the journal of Professor Charles Xavier, 1971:_

 _Day One: The moving van has barely departed, and already I can see Erik is chafing at our self-imposed restrictions on the use of mutant abilities. I remain resolute. This must be a fair assessment, after all._

The rest of the day passed quickly. Once everything was unpacked, the house explored, and the sofa thoroughly made out upon, Jean and Scott sat together on the brick ledge beside the fireplace.

"We should get takeout for dinner." Jean rested her head on Scott's shoulder, and he smoothed down her hair where it had been mussed. "Takeout is traditional on the night you move into a new place."

"We're on a budget," said Scott. "We've got groceries, I can cook something." His unease had finally crystallised into a question: was Jean expecting them to sleep in the same bed? His fingers suddenly beat a nervous tattoo against his leg, and he hurried into the kitchen to distract himself with mac and cheese.

Dinner and cleaning up passed too quickly, even though he did the washing himself while Jean sat on the mint formica bench beside him, chatting idly about the house and the park they'd driven past earlier and the postal worker who'd waved as they crept up and down the street looking for their number. More and more uncomfortable silences crept into their conversation as the numbers on the snazzy digital clock clicked over.

Finally Jean yawned and stretched, arching her back and flinging her arms upwards. "The first time we don't have to get up early for training, and I'm half asleep before midnight."

Scott didn't say anything, just hung the dish towel over the rail to dry, smoothing it down with his fingers to make sure there would be no wrinkles in the morning.

Jean frowned and reached out to press her fingers against the crease between his eyebrows. "Are you homesick already?"

Scott cleared his throat. "No, not exactly."

"Do you mind the waterbed? I thought I'd take the guest room. Waterbeds make me seasick." Jean made a puking noise.

Scott relaxed, and laughed. "No. I don't mind at all."

***

 _From the journal of Professor Charles Xavier, 1971:_

 _Day Two: Erik is complaining that the neighbours' questions are intrusive, and therefore evidence of their bias against mutants. I broke the embargo on use of our mutant abilities long enough to probe their minds, but found only generous natures and natural curiosity about the new arrivals in their street._

The waterbed was incredibly uncomfortable. After thrashing around for an hour Scott dragged his bedding downstairs to the sofa where he slept soundly until dawn. The clatter of the mail-slot woke him with a start.

There was no mail. Scott leaned on the door jamb and looked up and down the street: no sign of the cheery postal-worker they'd seen yesterday. In fact, the street was eerily empty, although this might always be the case at five AM, for all Scott knew about living in suburbia. He closed the door and slid the chain across then went into the kitchen to start up some pancakes.

Scott had elected to do maintenance around the house while they were staying there, so he got to work after breakfast with a ladder and a brush, cleaning out the spouting and brushing dead leaves from nooks and crannies under the gables. Jean kept him company, perched on the upstairs windowsill with her legs dangling over the edge.

"That's not very good cover." Scott said, as Jean stretched her legs out into the sun. "I know you're not going to fall, but the neighbours won't."

Jean kicked her legs happily. "I'm undercover as a reckless youth." She gave Scott a poke in the chest and gestured towards the house next door. An elderly woman stood on the neighbouring driveway, ostensibly flicking through her mail, but surreptitiously watching Scott and Jean from under her scarf-wrapped curlers. Scott turned on the ladder to give the woman a friendly wave, and she started guiltily, then waved back, and hurried into her house.

Scott counted to three in his head and then saw the lace curtains inside the house twitch. "I guess we've made contact with the natives."

***

 _From the journal of Professor Charles Xavier, 1971:_

 _Day Three: It is my belief, though Erik disagrees, that we are fitting seamlessly into life in Morning Glory Circle. Perhaps a party of some sort would allow us more opportunity to study the neighbourhood. I look forward to learning more._

"And I think the thing I like the most about this little town is that we're such an open-minded lot." Gladys from next door gestured with the cookie she'd held uneaten in her hand for an hour.

"Uh-huh." Jean nibbled at the edge of a cookie and idly levitated a pot-plant above the woman's head. Scott swept in from the kitchen, poured fresh coffee into Gladys' cup and snatched the pot-plant out of the air. He gave Jean a sharp look. She smiled blissfully and licked a crumb from the corner of her mouth.

"It's nice to see so many unusual faces. There's those gothic ladies on one corner, and the Farouks on the other – their son is our postman, and we've got you young folk," Gladys waved her cookie towards Scott as though that made her point.

"Uh-huh." Jean rested her chin in her hand.

Gladys turned in her seat as Scott plunked the pot-plant down on the coffee table. "Oh, that's plastic, dear. You don't need to water it." She spoke loudly, the words clear and slow.

"Uh, thanks." Scott took the coffee pot back to the kitchen in some bemusement.

Gladys leaned conspiratorially towards Jean. "He's learning disabled, isn't he? I have a grandson, he wears coloured glasses too. It's helped so much with his reading."

"Um," said Jean, and pushed the cookies closer to their guest.

"Anyway, I think it all started in this house with that nice couple. I'll be the first one to admit, they did look peculiar – one of them had no hair on his head at all – but it didn't take long for us to see that they really were just like us. You have to understand, dear, things were different then. Most of us had never met a," Gladys lowered her voice, " _homosexual._ "

There was a crash from the kitchen.

"I'd better go and see what that's about," said Jean.

***

 _From the journal of Professor Charles Xavier, 1971:_

 _Day Four: I refuse to indulge Erik's insane fantasy that someone is stealing our mail. He simply will not believe in people's good intentions._

"Who would have thought we would get so much junk mail in just four days?" Scott sat on the tiled floor of the bathroom, flicking through fliers while Jean watched, barely visible over the peaks of bubbles that covered her in the bath.

"That's nothing. Wait until word gets around that this house is occupied." Jean yawned, and flicked bubbles at Scott with her fingers. "Any good sales on?"

Scott unfolded a leaflet; pieces had been snipped out of the centre with short, jagged cuts. He peered at Jean through the holes. "Uh, I guess they sold out of some things."

"Creepy," said Jean. "Maybe someone had to make a ransom note?"

"I don't know. That's kind of weird." Scott folded the flier up carefully. "I'll talk to Gladys about it tomorrow; see if she's had any problems."

Jean rolled her eyes. "She's your greatest fan since you fixed that leaky faucet."

Scott scrambled to his feet and made a wry expression. "At least she doesn't think I'm dyslexic anymore. And she gave me a good recipe for meatloaf. The secret ingredient is graham crackers."

"She's crackers, all right." Jean sunk further down into the bath, and pushed the door closed behind Scott with a mental shove.

***

 _From the journal of Professor Charles Xavier, 1971:_

 _Day Five: Erik is refusing to take this experiment seriously. I caught him in the garage this afternoon, building some kind of device, the purpose of which he refuses to tell me. I cannot believe that his hubris would be so great that he would rather sabotage this affair than admit that he might be wrong about people._

It seemed likely to Scott that the person who rattled their mail-slot each morning might be responsible for butchering their fliers, so that night he slept in the hallway. When the brass hatch slammed closed with a clang, Scott leapt for the door, fast enough to hear the slam of the front gate and footsteps fading down the sidewalk, but by the time he had vaulted the fence the well-lit street was deserted. His feet were damp with dew when he stepped back into the house, so the folded piece of paper that had been pushed through the slot stuck to his heel. The creases were soft, as though the sheet had been folded and refolded, and in the dim light from the street, Scott saw the missing ads from their junk mail, arms and legs cut and rearranged scattered across the page. The message was written in shaky capitals: THE SHADOW KING WILL BE FREE. There was no signature. Scott jogged up the stairs to wake Jean.

They spread the collage out on the kitchen table, while Scott made hot chocolate. The men and women clipped from the flier all had neat slices through their heads like the top of soft-boiled eggs. Strange things spilled from their open heads, scribbled in different coloured inks, like a grade-school drawing.

"It's pretty weird," Jean said, tracing her fingers around a figure that had bright green lightning bolts springing from the hinged opening in his head.

Scott spooned sugar into one mug and handed it to Jean, then wrapped his hands around his own. "It's like a nightmare art project. Look," he pointed at one figure whose crown had been replaced with the smooth, white dome of an electric juicer, "Could that be Professor Xavier? He's kind of in the middle of the picture."

They huddled together on the sofa with their legs curled up under Scott's blankets.

"Maybe it's Gladys?" Jean's dislike of their nosy neighbour had not subsided.

Scott shook his head. "She's into scrapbooking. She showed me photos of her grandson. If she'd made that thing, she'd have used more stickers."

Jean snorted. "Now that's a really scary image." She didn't let go of Scott's hand under the blanket, though.

Scott gave her hand a squeeze. "We'll be fine. It's crazy stuff, but it's regular human crazy. We've faced so much worse. As soon as it's daylight, we can figure it all out."

 

***

 

 _From the journal of Professor Charles Xavier, 1971:_

 _Day Six: I will discover why he is spending all his time in the garage. How dare he think he can outsmart me?_

Gladys was full of useful information – she too had had junk mail stolen.

"It's a gang of coupon thieves, I'm sure of it," she told Scott, leaning over her garden fence. "I spoke to Mr. Farouk about it and he said he'd take care of it. Didn't want me to make an official complaint, he said – he's so funny! And he's an excellent mailman, much better than his father, not that we've seen Mr Farouk Senior for years." She patted Scott on the bicep affectionately. "Don't you ever grow old, dear. It's nothing but decay and joint pain." Scott nodded mutely, and extricated himself from the old woman's grip before Jean could brain her with her own garden gnome.

"I still think it's her." Jean hissed into Scott's ear as they walked away down the street.

Scott shook his head. "It's really not. She's actually very kind."

"She's a cougar." Jean pulled her arm away from his, and walked ahead of him at a brisk pace.

The Farouk home was a well-maintained cream clapboard house with a neatly clipped lawn and sparkling white paving leading to the front door. Jean pressed the doorbell, and they both waited beside a planter box overflowing with marigolds. Bees hovered lazily over the flowers. After a few minutes, Jean pressed the doorbell again.

Scott knocked on the door. "Mr. Farouk? Is anyone home?" He looked at Jean, and she shrugged. He turned the handle, and pushed the door open.

A wave of icy air hit them as they crossed the threshold; the hum of an air-conditioner came from somewhere further down the darkened hallway. Scott's skin prickled with awareness – there didn't seem to be any movement down the corridor, and no sounds of habitation from the house. Jean responded to his shift in posture, and put her back to his, just like in training, watching the other points of entry into the hall, keeping one eye on the front door. They moved as a single unit down the long, dark passageway. Scott tried the first door they came to; it swung inward, and something large slithered tilted in their direction with a dry rattle. Reflexively, Scott looked over the top of his lenses with narrowed eyes. The flash of his optic blast left them dazzled for a moment, but the beam shot through the room, slashing the drapes and cracking a window pane. Light poured into the room as tiny shreds of paper rained down on their heads; the room was filled with stacks and stacks of mail. One of them had tipped over as the door opened, and Scott had blasted the avalanche of paper before it hit them.

Jean picked up a handful of envelopes. "Stamped 1976, 1982, 1993." She looked around the room. "All different addresses, bills, handwritten letters. Why would you stash other people's mail?"

Scott propped the door open with a canvas knapsack stuffed with bundled letters, so that light spilled into the corridor. "Jean, check the house for people."

Jean nodded, then frowned, rubbing her temple. "It's not working. My telepathy, something's affecting it."

"Since you came into the house?" Scott wished he'd thought to bring his visor – he really couldn't control his optic blasts as precisely with his glasses.

"Well, I don't know. I haven't really tried to use it since we came here. We're not supposed to use our powers, remember?"

Scott looked at her, shocked. "But you've been using your telekinesis, I've seen you use it almost every day."

Jean made a face at him. "Telekinesis doesn't count – it's easy to use. Telepathy is hard work. Look, don't judge me! At least I don't get up every morning and hope my power's gone!" She kicked at a pile of letters in agitation, and a towering stack of letters toppled into another, and another, until like dominos, the skyscrapers of letters were reduced to a sea of envelopes that pooled knee-high around Scott and Jean. The fallen paper revealed the figures of two people, seated on a chesterfield. Scott swung around to face them, then realised they were dead. Their dark skin pulled taut over their skulls, thin and translucent as onion paper. There was a horrible similarity between the corpses and the happy parents in the faded photo hanging on the wall behind their heads, of the Farouk family posing on the deck of a ship with their young son between them. Scott suddenly understood the reason the air-conditioning was blasting away at full-force; it kept humidity low and allowed the bodies to slowly mummify over time, like bodies buried in desert sand. His mouth went suddenly, horribly dry.

Jean took a deep breath. "We have to get out of here."

Scott nodded, and they hurried towards the hallway. They closed the front door behind them, and walked as slowly and calmly as they could back to Number 1164.

"Should we call the police?" Scott gave a casual wave towards Gladys' house, where the lace curtains were twitching ominously.

Jean shook her head. "I don't know. There'll be so many questions. And technically we disturbed a crime scene or something. With mutant powers!" Her voice faded off into a squeak.

"We don't know it was a crime scene." Scott opened their gate. "They could have died of natural causes."

Jean gave a sharp bark of panicked laughter. "There was nothing natural about that house.” She stopped suddenly. The front door was ajar, and a mail cart sat abandoned on the portico. From inside the house came the sound of crockery smashing. Scott ducked low and pulled Jean down beside him, and together they scuttled around to the back of the house where they could get a better view of the kitchen through the French doors.

Amahl Farouk had thrown the cupboard doors open with such force that one was hanging off a broken hinge. He stood on the mint-green formica bench with his head inside a cupboard, clawing at the plates and cups that Scott had neatly stacked there last night. Scott pressed his lips together. For some reason, the destruction was made worse by the fact that Farouk was standing on the bench with his boots on. He nodded towards the French doors, and Jean suffused the brass handle with pink light as she lifted the latch telekinetically. Scott thanked the Professor for keeping the house in good shape, because the door slid open soundlessly, and the two of them ducked into the kitchen, keeping low behind the bench. Scott gave Jean the signal, and on three, the two of them leapt on Farouk, dragging him down to the ground. Scott pinned him at the shoulders, and Jean held his knees, while the man thrashed and moaned on the floor.

"No, no, please! I am trapped, I am trapped in this skull! You don't understand what it's like! Make it stop!"

Scott wrapped his hand in a dishcloth, and pressed it against Farouk's mouth until his cries subsided. "What do you mean, you are trapped?"

Farouk sobbed something unintelligible under the cloth, and Scott tentatively lifted it away. "Oh, please! I don't mean you any harm! I just want to be free! The bald man, he stopped it! He and his friend, they came here when I was just a boy and suddenly I was trapped! And then they left, and I was still trapped!" Tears rolled down his cheeks. "All I want is to be free again."

Jean looked at Scott with dawning comprehension. "Scott, I think he's a telepath, like me. And he can't use his power, like me. Maybe the Professor interfered with his power in some way?"

Scott scowled. He knew where to place the blame for blocking telepathy. "Magneto. Maybe he had a prototype of his helmet somewhere in the house?"

"Yes, yes!" Farouk agreed. "Somewhere in the house! I was looking for the source!" He lay very still under their hands. "I have looked many times but I have never found it."

Scott relaxed his grip a little. "Did you look in the attic?"

Farouk nodded. "The basement, also. Even in the closets, but I have never found anything."

"Did you look in the garage?" Jean said suddenly.

Farouk nodded, slowly at first, then with more enthusiasm. "Yes, there too. But it is very strange, the garage. The rest of the house is so ordinary, but the garage has a floor made of steel.

Scott held Farouk's arms behind his back while Jean searched the garage. Scott could hear the floor being pulled up, and in almost no time, she returned, bearing in her arms a conglomerate of wire coils and glass bulbs that hummed and glowed with no apparent power source. She looked at Scott, and Scott nodded. She flicked the large metal toggle on the side, and the blue light faded away from the device.

"FREE! FREE AT LAST!" Farouk's voice was no longer tentative and stammering, and it echoed painfully through Scott's skull. He tightened his grip on the man's arms, but Farouk made no attempt to break free.

"SO LONG TRAPPED IN THIS PUNY MIND, COWERING IN A RAT HOLE! NOW I AM FREE TO TAKE ANOTHER!" Farouk's head was glowing, the light expanding until it formed a bulbous shape with vaguely human facial features. "YOU! GIRL! YOU HAVE THE POWER FOR WHICH I HAVE HUNGERED! YOU WILL MAKE A FINE MEAL FOR THE SHADOW KING!"

"Oh, really?" said Jean. She dropped Magneto's device and set her feet apart, hoisting an imaginary baseball bat up to her shoulder. "Batter up!" Her hands glowed pink as she swung towards Farouk's head, her telekinesis uncoiling like a spring . There was a soundless moment of impact that pushed Farouk's body back into Scott's chest, then the bulbous form of the Shadow King flew through the air in a long arc, hurled from Farouk's body by the mighty telekinetic blow. The glowing entity howled in protest as it soared away from them, then dissipated before it hit the ground. Separated from the monstrous form, Farouk's legs folded underneath him, and Scott lowered him to the ground unconscious.

Jean dusted her hands together. "I think my work here is done."

***

 

 _From the journal of Professor Charles Xavier, 1971:_

 _Day Seven: I am saddened to have to record that I have terminated the experiment. There can be no scientific advancement without trust, and there can be no trust when one's partner has built a telepathic suppressor in the garage. I hope that one day I can convince Erik that we are no different from the rest of the world, but I fear that day is far in the future._

Scott hung the dishcloth on the rail, a little sad that it was for the last time. Warren and Bobby, gloriously tanned and chapped from six days on the piste, ferried Jean's wardrobe back into the rental van, while Jean directed them from the upstairs window.

Amahl Farouk had claimed to have no memories beyond the time that he had left Cairo with his family in 1970. Scott was dubious, but the Professor said that it was possible that the entity calling itself the Shadow King had piggybacked in Farouk's mind all the way from Egypt. Who the Shadow King was, exactly, was unclear. Jean thought from her brief contact that it was a human mind, and Professor Xavier theorised that it was the displaced consciousness of a telepath, accustomed to the freedom to roam from mind to mind, hijacking bodies to survive. Scott shuddered at the idea.

"It's possible," said the Professor, his voice thin on the satellite phone, "that the psychic shock of the telepathic suppressor was enough to push Farouk into mental collapse. The stolen mail could be seen as a substitute telepathy of sorts – a way to peak into other people's minds."

At least there was no way to connect the incident at the Farouk family home with the X-Men – Scott had called the police and reported that their mailman had broken into their house and then passed out on the patio. Once the patrol car pulled up in the driveway, the whole situation could be legitimately handed over to the officials. Now, a constant stream of police, social workers and health officials in and out of the Farouk house had kept Gladys engrossed by her window all day. Scott was just glad that the Professor had called an end to their stay in Morning Glory Circle. He'd feel a lot safer when they were back at Westchester.

He smiled when he felt an arm snake around his waist, and he reached behind to pull Jean around in front of him. "You come downstairs now, when all the washing up is finished."

"To be fair, I did all the packing." Jean wrinkled her nose at him.

Scott kissed the end of her nose. "To be fair, it was all your stuff that needed packing."

"Let's just call it even, then." Jean threw her arms up in the air and turned a circle. "Are you going to miss suburbia? Personally, I can't wait to get back to civilisation. You know, with the secret identities and costumes and all that normal stuff."

Scott gave a non-committal shrug, and reached out to flick a speck of dust off the coffee pot.

Jean looked at him with growing horror. "You liked it here, didn't you? With Gladys and meatloaf and junk mail and watering the lawn!" She shuddered. "Well, don't get your hopes up. I'm really not a white picket fence kind of girl."

Scott leaned down and kissed her on the lips. "I wouldn't want you to be." He slung his duffle bag over his shoulder, and took Jean's hand, and they walked out the front door together.


End file.
